


Sweet Again

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alicia Zimmermann's Film Career, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Films and Filmmaking, First Kiss, Food, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injured Jack Zimmermann, Jack Zimmermann Didn't Go to Samwell, M/M, Movie Sets, NHL Player Jack Zimmermann, Post-COVID-19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Jack was benched for the rest of playoffs after a knee injury. Alicia was down an actor in her latest film.  She only asked because she was desperate. He only agreed because the film had a dog.Then, in classic Jack Zimmermann fashion, he managed to immediately piss off the dogandher human—the walking ray of sunshine known as Eric Bittle. Jack had his work cut out for him if he wanted to make it right—for his own sake as well as the film's.
Relationships: Alicia Zimmermann & Jack Zimmermann, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 286
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Sweet Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soliduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soliduck/gifts).



> Beginning notes: Here it is, y'all, my contribution to [Fandom Trumps Hate](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/) 2020! Thank you to [soliduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soliduck/pseuds/soliduck) for the bid, [the au suggestion](https://totallyexcellentcheckpleaseaus.tumblr.com/post/189093263573/jack-is-a-movie-star-and-at-a-low-point-in-his), and being OK with my tweaking it.
> 
> CN: food, reference to Jack's overdose and an injury, references to COVID and George Floyd, minor off-screen character death (see end notes for more details). Please let me know if I should note anything else.

**EARLY MAY, 2022**

"Didn't he say _anything_ — No, I _heard_ that, but— No, _you're_ not listening!— Yes, all right, _fine_. I'm just the producer. What do I know?— Okay, fine, do whatever."

Jack paused in the condo entryway with his jacket half off. He hadn't heard Maman this upset since the mess with Papa's life insurance at the beginning of last year. He limped into the kitchen as Maman ended her phone call and tossed her phone onto the counter.

"Maman?" Jack asked tentatively. He pulled out a kitchen stool and settled gingerly on it, barely holding back a groan of relief as the tension in his knee eased.

"I miss phones with handsets that you could slam down," she said, chuckling weakly. Jack laughed dutifully and waited for her to say what she really wanted to. "Hi, honey. How was PT?"

Jack grimaced. "Grueling," he admitted. "What's going on?"

Maman sighed. "Another security guard pulled out."

Jack was confused until he realized she meant not an actual security guard but the actor playing the security guard in her current film, _Inner Eye_. Jack remembered it being a nice part, but they couldn't keep it cast. "How many is this?" he asked carefully.

" _Five,_ " Maman said, disgusted. She sank dramatically onto the stool next to him. "We're out of options."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Mom," he chided gently, "thousands— _tens_ of thousands—of actors would love this role."

"Of course they would," Maman said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "The problem is _finding_ them. You know how tight our budget is. Every day we go with that role uncast is another day we can't shoot those scenes. And every day we can't shoot, we come a day closer to running out of money to finish the film at all."

Jack winced. Hollywood sexism and ageism being what they were, the big studios didn't offer Maman anywhere near the number of roles they once had, although she was, in Jack's humble opinion, as beautiful as she'd been ten years ago, and a better actor. So she'd started producing.

Her tastes in scripts was broad, but they had to have at least one substantial role for an older woman who was her own person, not just a male main character's wife, mother, or mentor. Maman didn't always take those roles, but she had right of first refusal, and she wouldn't recommend her friends for a part she wouldn't play herself. She loved her movies like kooky distant relatives, and this one was particularly dear to her for some reason.

"I'm sorry," Jack said sincerely.

When he looked at her, she was looking back with a speculative glance that made his scalp tingle. He started to ease off of his stool with an excuse (albeit a real one) about needing to put his leg up. Maman caught his hand. "You could do it."

Jack paused, awkwardly half on and half off the stool, his knee screaming in protest. "I could do what?"

"Take the role."

Jack laughed. It burst out of him, the first time he'd laughed this hard since before his injury. "That's good," he said around guffaws.

Maman pouted. "Well, why not?"

Jack squeezed her hand while he caught his breath. "Mom, _Hockey News_ has voted me _Most Likely to Actually be a Robot_ every season of my NHL career."

"Not last season!" Maman protested, as if that changed anything.

"Last year was a tie," Jack reminded her. "Between me and the Schooners' Zamboni."

"You're selling yourself short." She gave him a sympathetic smile. "You have the time."

Jack sucked in a hard breath over his teeth and dropped back onto the stool. He hadn't asked for a season-ending injury in the first round of playoffs. "The Falcs' medical staff would love to hear you explain how I reinjured myself standing around shooting a movie," he said.

"We could work around that," she said earnestly. "You've read the script. Most of the guard's scenes could be filmed with you sitting."

Jack wanted to scream. Why was she not hearing him? Was she _that_ desperate to get this film made? "Maman—"

«Jack», she said, her voice reaching a near-frantic pitch as she switched unexpectedly to French, «since we first started dating, your father read every script I was considering a role in. And then every script I was considering producing».

Jack nodded. He hadn't known that, but it didn't surprise him.

« _Inner Eye_ was the last script he read. He loved it and told me I had to make it. Said the part felt 'written for me.' Jack, I _need_ to make this movie. For Bob».

A flame of rage licked up Jack's spine. How _dare_ she? How dare she use her love of his father—and his own—to bend Jack to her ends?

Then he started laughing again. Huge, gasping whoops that he couldn't control, that sounded as much like sobs as laughs. Maman watched him carefully but didn't speak.

What was she doing but what Papa himself had done? He'd tell an impressionable younger Jack tales of this or that long-dead ancestor's daring escape from this expulsion or that pogrom, this Inquisitor or that concentration camp. All so young Jack would straighten his shoulders, his tie, his kippah, and go onto that ice, into that banquet hall, or up on that bimah. What more fitting memorial to Bad Bob Zimmermann than his widow using him as a tool from his own toolbox?

Sensing Jack wavering, Maman swooped in for the kill. «This is the one with the dog».

Jack leveled her with a flat stare. She smiled serenely. Jack sighed. «Let me read the script again».

*

Jack had read the script for _Inner Eye_ a year ago. He'd forgotten how clever it was. On the surface, it read like a standard academic heist/revenge piece. Maman's character was a disgraced mathematician who gathered an unlikely crew to help her prove that the rival who'd ruined her reputation had made his renown on the back of ideas he'd stolen from her.

But underneath the wacky academic hijinks, which made Jack grateful that he'd decided against college after his overdose, ran deeper philosophical and existential threads. _Had_ the professor's rival stolen her work, or was she just paranoid? Was mathematics a pure, unimpeachable field, or was it as subject to human bias as any other? Did "reality" exist, or had humankind agreed to abide by its polite fiction to shield itself from the chaos of the universe?

Also, it had a dog.

"Fine," Jack said as he finished the script and dropped his tablet onto the table. "I'll talk to the director."

*

"That man," Jack said as he walked out of his meeting with the director, "isn't right."

Maman tutted and tucked her hand into the crook of Jack's arm. "Johnson's a visionary. Mere mortals like us can't hope to understand him."

"He doesn't have a first name! How visionary is that?"

"Of course he has a first name." Maman rolled her eyes. "He doesn't use it professionally. Plenty of people in the business only go by one name."

"Yes," Jack said, "but when I asked him what it is, he said, 'I don't think that's relevant to this AU.' What does that mean?"

Maman shrugged, unconcerned. "When you do this job as long as I have, you learn not to ask a writer or director what they mean by anything they say. It ends in a headache." She bit her lip, looking truly concerned for the first time since they'd arrived for the meeting. "Is it too much?"

Jack was _so_ tempted to say yes. He'd limped his way to the meeting and met the strange director. Couldn't say fairer than that, right? If he said he couldn't do it, Maman would back off. She would never force him to do what made him truly uncomfortable, no matter how much his father had loved the script. This was his out.

But when he made himself stop and check what he was feeling, he realized that Johnson _hadn't_ made him uncomfortable. Just confused. And while he didn't enjoy being confused, it didn't, in this moment, feel like a dealbreaker.

Jack smiled and hoped he looked reassuring. "No," he said, "I'm in."

*

**MID-MAY, 2022**

The moment Jack and Maman's feet hit the Samwell campus, someone small and dark-haired raced up to them wielding a clipboard and looking ready to whack people with it—starting with Jack. "Hello, Alicia," they said quickly before rounding on Jack. "You're not on the schedule today. We're not ready for you to be here today. _Why are you here today_?"

Jack took a half step back, hands coming up in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

Maman put her hand on his arm reassuringly. "Jack, it's fine. Larissa, it's fine." She gestured between them. "Jack, this is Larissa Duan, one of the associate producers. Their job mostly involves corralling unruly actors. So you can imagine why they prefer us in our proper places." She smiled at Larissa. "I assume they're concerned about not having a trailer ready for you."

Jack blinked. "Why would I need a trailer? I'll only be here a quarter of the time."

"Yes, but you won't be shooting the entire time you're here," Maman pointed out. "Where will you go while the crew resets between takes, or when we're shooting a scene you're not in?"

"Well... to your trailer, I thought," Jack said quietly and tried not to feel like a compete ass. Maman was a big-shot producer on this film, in addition to being its star. Of course she wouldn't want to share her trailer with her depressed and barely mobile son.

Maman looked at Larissa, who shrugged. "If you're okay with it," Larissa said, the words not fully out before they were scribbling at the papers on their clipboard.

Maman looked at Jack. "If _you're_ okay with it, sweetheart."

Jack shrugged. "Wasn't that the point of having me here? To spend more time together?"

"Jack," Maman tutted, "we live together. We don't need _more_ time together. I enjoy it, of course, but we're adults. I don't need to be with you every second." _Like I did after the overdose_ went unsaid.

"Look," Jack said, "we won't be together much, right? You'll be filming and doing... producer things. I doubt we'll have time to get on each other's nerves."

Maman looked at him for a long minute and then smiled. "All right. If it's okay with you and Larissa, then that would be lovely."

Larissa waved the clipboard. "Far as I'm concerned, it's done."

"Thank you, Larissa," Maman said, smiling. "Could you point us toward it?"

"I'll walk you," Larissa said, tucking their pencil behind their ear. "I'm headed that way."

Maman and Larissa chatted like old friends as they walked across campus. Jack stayed silent, keeping track of where they were going and where things were in relation to each other. The last thing he wanted was to get lost trying to get to his trailer.

Jack grinned when Larissa stopped in front of the biggest trailer on the lot and said, "Well, this is you." Maman was relatively undemanding, as movie stars went, but she liked her space, as Jack had relearned quickly when she moved in with him after Papa died. Being the producer meant she cut the checks, which meant she got whatever damned trailer she wanted—and she wanted a big one. When Jack thought about it like that, he felt humbled that she was willing to share it with him.

Maman climbed the two steps to the door and opened it, peering inside excitedly like she didn't know exactly what it looked like. "Well?" she asked. "Are you coming in, Jack?"

Jack scratched his neck. "I, uh, thought I'd look around campus. Get a feel for the place?" He wasn't sure he was ready to be inside that small space with his mother.

Larissa smirked. "Watch out, Alicia. Hasn't been inside and he's already sick of it." Jack wondered what kind of person could chirp Alicia Zimmermann so casually.

Maman rolled her eyes. "He's looking for the dog," she whispered. Jack jerked his head to stare at her, betrayed.

Larissa laughed. "Sorry, bro, she's not here today. The American Humane Association has firm guidelines around animal actors, and we're trying hard not to piss them off. Plus, you try getting Bitty out of bed on a morning he doesn't have to."

Jack's heart sank. He felt silly about his pocketful of dog treats, but he understood. "No, of course. Sorry." He turned to go into the trailer and caught the tail end of an eyebrow-and-head-tilt conversation between Larissa and Maman.

Larissa pulled a walkie-talkie from their belt. "Yo, anybody got a 20 on Shits, over?"

After a brief pause, the walkie-talkie crackled to life and a voice responded, "Yeah, he's in the tent. Trying to unionize the bagels. Over."

Larissa laughed. "Copy that, Dex. Over and out." They put away the walkie-talkie and pulled a small keyring off the giant one on their belt. They held it out to Jack. "If you want to take a golf cart around, get the lay of the land and shit? Shitty's in the food tent. He'd be a good person to know."

Jack took the key, and his eyebrows lifted. "Shitty?"

"Our lawyer. Keeps us out of trouble." They bobbed their head. "Theoretically."

Maman chuckled. Jack shrugged. A lawyer named Shitty wasn't as good a distraction as a dog, but it would probably be better than stewing in the trailer. "Yeah, all right."

"'Swawesome." Larissa tugged a campus map from the clipboard and drew two circles on it before handing it to Jack. "Okay, we're here, and the tent is here," they said, tapping the circles. They didn't seem far apart. Now that Jack was looking at a map, the area of campus designated for the film seemed manageably small. 

"Thanks, Larissa."

They threw him a kind-of salute. "Welcome aboard, Zimmermann. I'll need that key back when you're done." It was both welcome and dismissal, because they turned immediately to Maman. "Do you have a few minutes? I have a couple questions."

Maman gestured Larissa into the trailer. "Good. I have a couple for you."

As the door closed behind them, Jack tracked down one of the golf carts that had been left around campus for the film team and pointed it toward the food tent and Shitty.

Though the students were gone for the summer, Samwell administration was being surprisingly stingy about letting the cast and crew into the buildings when they weren't actively shooting indoor scenes. Even famed Samwell alumna Alicia Zimmermann could only open so many doors. Jack didn't know where people ate on other movie sets, but it was probably fancier than an event tent sheltering a couple folding tables covered with food, four coolers of drinks underneath, and a handful of picnic tables. Maman was clearly making this movie for love, not money.

The guy in the tent had messy brown hair spilling out of a red knit beanie. A frayed denim jacket with a Notorious RBG patch covering the back. Khaki cargo shorts spattered with a riot of paint. Lemon-yellow flip-flops that seemed recklessly optimistic for mid-May in Massachusetts.

Jack approached warily. "Uh, excuse me? Sorry, hello, I was looking for—"

The guy spun around, revealing a sharp face with a huge chunk of bagel hanging out of the mouth and an enormous pornstache liberally flecked with cream cheese. "JACK MOTHERFUCKING ZIMMERMANN! BRING THAT PERFECTLY FORMED CANADIAN ASS HERE!" The guy dropped the bagel and started coming at him, arms spread.

Jack put his hands up and took a step back. "Whoa, sorry, I—"

The guy froze. "Holy shit, I _cannot_ believe I did that! Wow, are you okay, man? That was so beyond not cool. I should've asked! I'm sorry. I got so excited to meet Alicia's kiddo— not that that's an excuse—"

"It's-it's fine," Jack said. Not because it was, but because he needed to stop the torrent of words gushing out of this guy's mouth. "I was, uh... Larissa said the film's lawyer was here, and I should come meet him?"

"Indeed you should, my man," the guy said, nodding enthusiastically. Then he squinted. "Although I would think the league would offer you better options—not that I'm not, like, _imminently_ competent, just—more appropriate? Unless—oh! Are you suing Strømmen's ass for that nasty hit? 'Cause that fucker totally deserves it."

Jack gritted his teeth. He'd been hoping that people on an indie movie set wouldn't be hockey fans ready to bombard him with opinions on his injury. Then the rest of the guy's words filtered in. " _You're_ the lawyer?"

"Yeah, man! Aww, shit, where are my manners? Here." The guy wiped his bagel-crumb-dusted hand on his leg and then shoved it into a half dozen pockets in his pants and jacket before coming up with a business card. 

It wasn't a case or clip, just a single card, crinkled at the corners, that said _B.S. Knight, Esq., Attorney at Law_ , with a phone number and email address. The lettering was purple. Jack tilted it toward the sun. "Is this glitter font?"

"Yeah, man!" The guy—Knight?—crowed. "I make the law _sparkle._ "

Jack looked up from the card. " _You're_ the lawyer?" he repeated. "You're _a_ lawyer?"

Jack instantly felt like an ass, but Knight laughed and pulled out his phone. "Brah, I get that all the time." He swiped through a few screens and held the phone out to Jack. "Here."

It was a picture of a diploma in a leather case, decreeing that B S Knight (with the rest of the first and middle names scribbled out via the phone's rudimentary photo mark-up tools) had earned a Juris Doctorate degree from Harvard Law School in 2018.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "You went to Harvard?"

Knight raised his back. "What, like it's hard?"

Jack nodded. "One of the hardest in the country, I'm told."

Knight's eyes widened, and then he grinned so widely they crinkled up. "Jack Zimmermann, you gorgeous Quebecois rock lord, do not ever change."

Jack blinked. "Uh... okay?"

Knight chose four donuts from a peach-colored bakery box and slid one onto each of his pinkies and ring fingers. He grabbed a bottle of root beer from one of the coolers and sat at a picnic table. Jack grabbed a cup of yogurt, a pack of mixed nuts, and a bottled smoothie. Against all good sense, he sat down across from Knight at the table.

Knight tore a horrifyingly large bite from one of his donuts with his mouth—while it was still on his finger—and groaned pornographically. "Georgia Peach, man," he said with a fervor most people reserved for talking about exceptionally talented sexual partners. "Best bakery on the Eastern Seaboard. And I don't just say that because the owner's my best bud." Knight chewed, swallowed, and then turned a surprisingly sharp gaze toward Jack. "Bro, can we talk about that fucking _beast_ of a play right before you got hit? Not gonna lie: I creamed myself when Thirdy sent that saucer in low bar."

Jack stared at Knight. That was... well, it was disturbing, first off, but hockey _fans_ didn't often talk like that. "You play?"

Knight guzzled his root beer and shook his head as he wiped foam off his moustache. "Tragically, not even a beer league since college. But, yes, Adonis of Montreal. Once upon a time I graced the ice of Faber Stadium with my slightly-above-average stick-handling skills and far-above-average flow."

Jack jerked. "Faber? You played for Samwell?"

Knight waved his root beer around. "I mean, yeah. Most of us did, at least in the crew. That's how we ended up involved with the movie. We would do a lot for Derek Nurse, you know?"

Jack's mind rapidly dropped pieces into place. Derek Nurse had written the script. Was this movie full of former Samwell hockey players? With a Samwell _and_ a hockey connection, Papa's comment that the part felt like it was written for Maman felt less far-fetched.

Jack had met his share of movie and TV people in his lifetime. The best thing about them was that most didn't give a shit about hockey. They were obsessed with his eyes and cheekbones and knew nothing about his stats or his overdose. He'd hoped that a movie set would be one damned place that he could just be _Alicia Zimmermann's son_. But if the crew was filled with hockey players, he wasn't getting a reprieve.

Jack swallowed and tried to stay present in the conversation. "And Johnson?"

Knight laughed. "Chyeah. He's one weird motherfucker. Goalie, y'know?" Jack _did_ know. "Lardo tells me he's got 'vision,' and I make a point not to argue with them about art."

"Lardo—that's Larissa?"

Knight nodded and smiled. "The love of my life, man. They were team manager for three and a half years. Kept us sorry fucks in line better than anyone—including the coaches and staff. Their first day on the job, one of the upperclassmen said he didn't think they could do the job because they were so little. They threatened to break a clipboard over his head. The second day he ragged them again, and they _did it_. I started to fall in love at that moment."

Jack laughed; he could picture it easily. "They called you... Shitty? Is that a hockey nickname?"

"I mean... sort of?" Knight (Shitty?) ate his last donut, his expression contemplative. "I picked it up when I was playing at Andover. It's a play on my initials, right. But also a nod to the fact that my family is prominent in New England old-money circles, and even those bastards think we're a bunch of dickcheeses. We're the Shitty Knights."

"You don't seem to fit that mold."

Shitty saluted Jack with his root beer before throwing his head back to finish it. He let out a disgusting but admittedly impressive burp. "Thank you, Captain Canada. But I do sliding scale defense work and live with Lardo without the shackles of kyriarchic oppression strangling us—a.k.a we're not married and don't plan to be. As far as my father and grandfather are concerned, I'm the shittiest Knight of all. I like to remind them of that as often as I can."

"Huh."

By the time Maman and Lardo found them an hour later, Jack felt his brain leaking out of his ears. Shitty had expounded on everything from the prison-industrial complex ("Archaic and barbaric.") to the Red Sox's season ("Abysmal.") to the current state of police defunding ("Too fucking slow!") and post-COVID world recovery ("Cruising toward the new-new normal. But, hey, I'm sorry about your dad, man."). Jack had barely contributed to the conversation, but Shitty didn't seem to mind; he was a one-man show happy for a one-man audience.

But it felt weirdly... nice. Shitty seemed to accept Jack for who and where he was, making Jack feel welcomed without pushing for more than he could offer. Jack wasn't sure what to _do_ with this guy. But he liked knowing he could leave the trailer sometimes and find a friendly face.

*

Jack was going to sweat right through this damned guard uniform. The heavy, scratchy polyester mixed poorly with his skyrocketing anxiety, and sweat was pooling in places it never had before, not in a lifetime of hockey. The scene would be unusable. Film editing capabilities were good these days, but they couldn't make an actor look _less_ like the melting Nazis at the end of _Raiders,_ could they?

This was the third scene of Jack's to be shot and the first one to be shot out of order. He had known, in the abstract, that that happened, but he hadn't realized until this moment how it would disorient him. How he would struggle to get into the scene. He'd never in his life felt less prepared for a job he'd been given, not even the first time he tried to coach a rinkful of eight-to-twelve-year-olds. He sent Maman an apologetic grimace. She smiled and shook her head.

In the scene, the professor lets slip that, despite their years of friendly banter, she hasn't chosen Jack's character for whatever big, secret operation she has going on because she doesn't think a security guard with no advanced degrees could be smart enough to contribute to it. It was supposed to hurt: another rung of the ethical ladder the professor was slipping down, another hurdle to clear to come back to herself. But Jack couldn't find the hurt because they'd barely put the time into building the camaraderie his character thought they shared.

Johnson left his chair and crossed to Jack and Maman. "Jack," he said, "talk to me. What are you worried about?"

Baring his soul on a crowded film set to a near-stranger whose face he could barely see under his Samwell hockey snapback hardly made Jack's list of activities conducive to good mental health. But he doubted he could get out of this with a shrug and an attempt at deflection. "Being terrible. Ruining your movie. I just... can't feel hurt that she's snubbing me because I don't feel like she liked me. Because we haven't done that part yet."

"Jack, I'm your _mother,_ " Maman said. "Of course I like you."

" _You_ like _me_ ," Jack said, "but does Belinda Almquist like Dan the security guard?"

Maman pinched the bridge of her nose. " _Method actors,_ " she muttered under her breath, which made Jack smile for a second.

"Jack, man, you can do this," Johnson insisted. "You _have_ done this. Remember your screen test!"

"My screen test was awful," Jack said, aghast. "I had the charm and motion of an actual robot."

"Chyeah." Johnson laughed. "But you had the two most important things I needed for this part: you looked amazing, and you were _there_." _Merde,_ it was a dick thing to say, but it made Jack laugh and eased the tension from his shoulders and chest. Johnson grinned. "Better?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. Better."

"Great. You got canon anxiety in an AU world, bruh. Let the rest of us take care of you." Johnson clapped him on the shoulder and then shouted, "Take five! Reset."

Jack looked around. As far as he could see, there was nothing to reset. But he smiled gratefully and stood carefully, easing out of the guard station where his character spent most of his time.

Before his back foot could hit the ground, something small and solid slammed into his calf, crashing him into the station. He staggered catching himself on the door frame, which wobbled but held.

"Buttercup, _down_!" a horrified voice yelled.

Taking deep breaths to bring his racing heartbeat under control, Jack looked down to see the most adorable doggy grin panting up at him from near the floor. He didn't look away as the owner of the horrified voice puffed up to him and tried to pull the dog—Buttercup?—away from him. "I am so sorry," the voice said, fluttering with Southern charm. "She's much better trained than this!"

Jack pushed away from the station and tested his knee. It didn't seem worse for the incident, but he hadn't done his recovery any favors. "It's okay," he said. "I'm used to taking checks."

The voice snorted. "Sure, but they're usually higher than mid-calf."

Jack tore his gaze away from the adorable corgi (in a bow tie) and made himself look at the person attached to it. Then he choked on nothing and covered it with the fakest-sounding cough in the history of humankind.

If Jack had a type, this guy would fit the bill perfectly: sunshine-blond hair, compact body, a smattering of freckles across an upturned nose, big, sparkling, honey-brown eyes with a hint of mischief. That accent wasn't any hardship on Jack's ears, either.

All of a sudden, Jack was furious. Who the hell did this guy think he was? This wasn't what Jack was here for. He straightened his shoulders, glared down— _way_ down—at the newcomer, and snarled, "This isn't a dog park. Keep him under control."

The other guy straightened up, as well. Jack could feel the tightly-leashed fury radiating from him. " _She_ is a well-trained professional, Mr. Zimmermann," he snapped, packing a heap of contempt into the syllables of Jack's name. "She only forgets herself when someone has t-r-e-a-t-s they're not giving her."

Jack gestured to his uncomfortable and ill-fitting guard costume. "Where the hell would I hide dog treats? Clearly your mutt isn't as well-trained as you think."

The man bristled. His fingers trembled as they curled around the dog's leash. "Buttercup has more professionalism in her front paw than you do in your entire body. Buttercup, heel." Buttercup heeled and followed toward the front door of the building, the guy throwing a terse, "Lardo, call me when you need us" over his shoulder as they went.

"You got it, Bits," Lardo said, scribbling on their ubiquitous clipboard.

Jack shook out his hands. The anger was draining out of him, leaving him with that sick, post-adrenaline crash. He wanted to finish this damned scene and go home. "Okay, that's been five," he said, "are we reset yet?"

"Dude, it's barely been two," Lardo said. "What the _fuck_ was that?"

Jack bristled. "That dog is a hazard," he said. "I thought you'd appreciate me telling that guy to keep her under control." That was a lie. With every second of distance he got from the incident, Jack felt more like an ass, and he suspected that no one appreciated what he'd done.

The suspicion was confirmed when Lardo stalked toward him with fire flashing in their brown eyes. "This is not the Falcs. You are not captain here. Your job is to _act. Not_ to tell other members of the cast or crew how to do their jobs. If you have a problem with how someone on this film works, you come to me, Foxtrot, or Alicia. Even if it _were_ your job..." They shook their head. "There was no call to be an asshole."

Jack deflated the rest of the way down. He didn't even know why he'd done it. But being confronted with a gorgeous, cheerful ray of sunshine when he felt like a walking disaster had gotten his hackles up.

"Oh, would you look at that," Johnson called, voice carrying across the set, "it's time for lunch break."

Jack looked at his watch. His watch told him it was 10:15.

"Have a good one, folks. See you at one!"

Jack's stomach sank. That was almost a three-hour lunch, which meant a two-hour loss in filming time, which was entirely his fault.

"Johnson..." Maman said as Johnson walked past her, a worried V creasing her forehead.

Johnson smile. "Alicia, it's fine," he said. "The budget can accommodate the disruption, and so can the narrative." He might've winked. Who could tell with that hat covering half his face?

Maman smiled, seeming reassured, and walked out of the building with a sharp, "Jack, you're with me!" Jack smiled sheepishly at Lardo and Shitty, who glared back, and hurried to catch up.

In the trailer, Jack removed his itchy uniform shirt and slacks and pulled on a Falconers hoodie. Maman pulled two plastic-wrapped sandwiches and a pitcher of filtered water from the mini fridge. She jerked her head toward the cabinets. "Chips."

"Mom," Jack said, unable to keep from protesting the empty calories despite knowing how much hot water he was in right now.

"Get me chips, then. You do whatever you want."

Jack found a snack bag of salt and vinegar chips—Maman's favorite. He was ready to close the cabinet when he spotted a bag of peanut butter pretzels, which wouldn't be the worst cheat in the world. He joined Maman at the table, trying to look contrite.

"Turkey and mozz with red pepper hummus," Maman said, gesturing at Jack's plate. "Enough protein even for you."

Jack nodded and began unwrapping his sandwich. "Thank you," he said, and they both knew he was thanking her for more than lunch.

Jack understood that this lunch was both his only reprieve and his only chance to explain himself to Maman. Jack chewed slowly and tried to understand why he'd reacted to the guy—Bits? Crisse, he hadn't even gotten the guy's name!—so strongly.

He didn't like the answers he came up with.

Jack ate as slowly as he could, but a sandwich, a bag of pretzels, and a glass of water only lasted so long. Maman threw away the trash and came back to face Jack across the empty table, hands folded elegantly in front of her. "So," she said. "Bitty."

"Bitty," Jack said softly, testing the name. It suited him. Jack eased his leg into a more comfortable position and sighed. "This movie," he said. "I'm only doing it for you."

Maman snorted. "I'm well aware."

"I thought I could... come here, hang out with you, shoot a few scenes, and be done."

One of Maman's perfect eyebrows arched. "Is that not what you're doing?"

Jack waved his hand to indicate generally the world outside the trailer—the set, the people, the campus. "I didn't expect it to make me question... everything."

Maman squinted at him. "What are you questioning?"

" _Everything_!" Jack said again. He ran his hands through his hair. "Making this movie has been... fun. I'm not a great actor, and I don't love it the way I love hockey. But it's fun. And less pressure. What if I'd followed in your footsteps, instead of Papa's? I wouldn't have to have been an actor. I could've gone into cinematography.

"And Shitty's been showing me around campus when I'm not shooting—on the golf carts," he added, hands raised, when Maman looked ready to object. "Don't worry about my knee. The stories he tells—and watching how close the Samwell hockey people are—I keep thinking, what if I'd gone to college after my overdose? What if I'd had four years to... to find myself?" He swallowed hard and stared at his hands. They were shaking. "What if I haven't found myself?"

Maman's face had softened throughout Jack's ramble. Her anger in her eyes faded, replaced by concern. "Oh, Jack. I'm sorry you've been carrying that alone."

Jack nodded. "I have therapy on Thursday. Cecile and I would've talked about this then."

"I'm sure you would." Maman tilted her head, and Jack braced for the follow-up. "I don't understand what this has to do with the deplorable way you treated Bitty."

Jack felt his cheeks heating. He busied himself sweeping up imaginary crumbs. "Bitty is..." Jack cleared his throat. "He's an attractive man." Which did no justice to the struck-by-lightning feeling he'd had when he looked at the guy for the first time.

"Oh!" Maman said, soft and startled.

"If I had a different life—I mean, I don't know if he's into men, or if he'd be into _me_ —"

"Well, probably not _now_ ," Maman muttered under her breath.

Jack rolled his eyes. "If I were a nobody cameraman or cinematographer, I could... do something about it."

For a long moment, Maman sat quietly, considering him. "Of course what you're feeling is valid," she said, reaching across the tiny table to take Jack's hand. "I'm not trying to talk you out of feeling anything. But you're under a few misapprehensions that need clearing up, as... an alternative perspective."

Jack blinked. This wasn't the approach he'd expected her to take.

"You said that making this movie is fun, and less pressure than hockey. And I'm glad to hear that. But that's because it's not real to you."

"Mom—" He tried to protest.

She cut him off. "You're taking it seriously. You're Jack Zimmermann; you don't know how not to take things seriously. But it's the way I used to be about shinny with you and Bob: you want to do well because it matters to someone who matters to you, not because it has personal consequences for you. If it were your career—well, if you were the cinematographer on this film, don't tell me you wouldn't spend _days_ agonizing over shots and effects for each scene."

Jack swallowed. He could never know for sure, but she was probably right.

"And Jack, darling, not everyone 'finds themself' in college. You find yourself when you take the time to look. Take the time _now_ , while you have it."

Jack nodded. She hadn't directly addressed his confession about Bitty, but he understood how it was part of finding himself, whatever that looked like. "Thank you, Mamam," Jack said softly.

She squeezed his hand. "Any time, baby." She let go and stood, and Jack braced himself. Maman often saved conversational zingers for those rare moments when she had a height advantage over him. "You still need to apologize to Bitty, of course."

Jack nodded glumly. "Of course."

She smiled. "Good boy. See you at one!" Then she was sweeping out of the trailer with that effortless grace that had made her famous the world over. Jack was used to constantly measuring himself against his father's skills on the ice, but he suspected that if he'd gone into film, he would notice himself lacking his mother's poise and elegance.

Maman had been right about a lot of things, and especially this: this movie might be a passing diversion for him, but for the rest of the cast and crew, it was their livelihood. Jack needed to suck it up and act like a member of the team, even if only for their sakes.

While Maman was off doing whatever producers did, Jack did mindfulness exercises and calisthenics and reread the scene to remind himself of his lines. At 12:30 he got back into costume, knowing he needed plenty of time to smooth things over with Lardo and Shitty, and Johnson if needed. (Except that nothing bothered Johnson. Ever. Jack found it unnerving.)

When he smoothed his hands down the front of the uniform, he felt a strange bulge in the shirt pocket. Frowning, he dug his fingers into it—and came out with a dog treat.

Well, shit. Now he owed Bitty two apologies. And he owed Buttercup one, too.

*

The scene went better the second time around. Jack made a tentative peace with Shitty and Lardo—although Lardo made it clear that he had to apologize to Bitty if he wanted to stay in their good graces. Sooner seemed like a better plan than later.

Buttercup was the cutest dog Jack had ever met in person. She was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi with giant ears and a giant doggy grin, and her human liked to put her in bow ties. She was also very upset with Jack. She'd been chasing a Frisbee that Bitty was throwing for her on the quad near today's filming location. As Jack approached as quickly as his leg would allow, she ran to Bitty, dropped the Frisbee at his feet, and crouched in front of him, growling.

"Buttercup!" Bitty said, scandalized. "What on Earth are you—" He looked up. His face shuttered, and he crossed his arms. Jack tried to focus on the task at hand and not on how the move made surprisingly well-defined biceps bulge under Bitty's crisp pink dress shirt. "Ah. Mr. Zimmermann. Buttercup, stop." Buttercup stopped growling but kept her defensive stance. If looks could kill, Jack would be dead by dog.

Jack stopped further away than he would've liked, but keeping his distance seemed prudent with twenty-odd pounds of angry corgi staring him down. "Euh, yes. Bitty, right?"

Bitty straightened. His big brown eyes looked more like hard agates than warm honey. "Oh, no," he said, "my _friends_ call me Bitty. _You_ can call me Eric. Or Bittle, if that makes your team-sports-loving heart happier."

Jack swallowed. "Oh. Uh. Right. Bittle." He took a deep breath. "I came to apologize. To you and to Buttercup."

Bitty—no, _Bittle's_ —stance and expression softened slightly. Buttercup's didn't. "Oh?"

Jack nodded. "I had no call to talk to you like that today. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He took a cautious step forward. Buttercup jerked toward him but didn't growl again. "I also owe you an apology, Ms. Buttercup, because it turns out you were right." Bittle looked intrigued. 

Jack reached into his shirt pocket. The dog treat was wrapped in plastic, but Buttercup's tail started thumping the instant Jack got it out of his pocket, her nose tracing eagerly through the air. Laughing, Jack started to unwrap the treat. Then he paused, considered, and handed it to Bittle. "Think I better let your dad decide," he said.

" _Dad_ ," Bittle snorted, but he didn't look unhappy as he took the treat and immediately unwrapped it for Buttercup. "Well, thank you, Mr. Zimmermann."

"You're welcome... Bitty."

Bittle's eyes narrowed. "No."

Jack nodded. "Is it... because you're so small?"

Bittle glared. "It's because my last name is Bittle, bless your heart. I am perfectly normal-sized. Hockey's just full of giants."

"You played?" Jack wished he could see what his face was doing so he could control it.

"You be careful with those eyebrows, mister. You're only partially off my shit list. I can easily slide you back on."

Jack had more to say, but Bittle was under no obligation to hear it. Jack took a step back. "I'll let you get back to... whatever you were doing. See you around, Bittle."

"You have a real good day, Mr. Zimmermann." Jack felt thoroughly dismissed by that pleasant sentence. Wincing, he turned to go. Then he paused when Bittle called, "You should google me. Eric with a c, Bittle with an l-e."

Jack nodded. "I will," he promised. Bittle had made it sound like a challenge. And Jack never backed down from a challenge. Even when he should.

*

Eric-with-a-c Bittle-with-an-l-e, Jack discovered when he returned to the trailer, owned a Providence bakery called Georgia Peach that seemed hugely popular with customers and press alike. He hosted a thriving YouTube channel, wrote best-selling cookbooks, and had been featured in the Southern episode of Netflix's mini-series on American regional cuisines.

(When curiosity got the better of him, Jack learned that Erik-with-a-k Bittel-with-an-e-l was a barrel-chested 40-something brunette who did quite well for himself on PornHub Amateur, which explained why Bittle took pains to spell his name out.)

Deeper digging revealed that Eric Bittle had also captained the Samwell men's hockey team to its first Frozen Four championship win in thirty years—and he'd done it as the first openly gay men's hockey captain in NCAA Division I history.

So here was a guy who'd done, as easy as pie (heh), what Jack had told himself for years couldn't be done: he'd played hockey as an openly queer man—played and _thrived_.

As a little-known player from a little-known university, Bittle hadn't carried the same pressure that Jack did as an NHL player and Bad Bob's son. But he also hadn't had the same backup. Jack felt embarrassed that he couldn't match Bittle's level of bravery.

The NCAA wasn't the NHL, of course. But teammates who'd played in college said that the differences were of degree, not kind. The two leagues came with the same chirps, the same fines, the same homophobic macho bullshit. Since the Q, Jack had sold himself a lot of justifications about why he couldn't be out and still play. But Bittle had been out and playing and apparently happy—and captain to boot. It flew in the face of every justification Jack had given himself.

Which left the terrifying question: if the things he'd feared weren't true, what the hell was stopping him?

*

At first, Jack thought he was hearing a clap of thunder or the door rattling in its frame. He kept on with his PT, gritting his teeth and focusing on his count rather than on the wind shrieking outside and how flimsy this trailer was.

But the banging continued, followed by a voice calling desperately, "Alicia? Alicia, you in there?"

For a brief and shameful second, Jack considered not answering. Then basic human decency kicked in, and he eased himself off the couch and to the door.

Bittle looked awful. Drenched and bedraggled, he was clutching three familiar peach-colored bakery boxes against his chest, futilely attempting to shield them from the downpour. Buttercup huddled behind his legs. Jack didn't stand a chance against the collective weight of that much unhappiness.

"Oh! Jack!" Bittle said, already turning to go. "I was expecting—I'll—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jack said, moving out of the doorway. Buttercup needed no further invitation. She bounded into the trailer and dripped miserably onto the tiny tiled section of the kitchenette.

The corner of Bittle's mouth curled wryly as he followed Buttercup up the stairs at a more careful pace, gingerly balancing his soggy boxes. "Well, that's that decision made for me." Inside the trailer, he stopped, looking around. "What—I mean where can I—"

"Here." Jack stepped to the side and gestured toward the small table. Bittle lurched forward, dropping the boxes onto the table. They landed with a splat.

Bittle swayed by the table. The guy was shivering, and his eyes looked glassy. His pale yellow button-down clung to his chest and arms in delicious ways, but now wasn't the time to focus on that.

Jack opened his mouth to ask what Bittle needed, and the movement snapped Bittle back to reality. "Towels," he said before Jack could get a word out. "Bottom shelf of the bathroom closet. Should be a couple extra-large towels." His voice sounded scratchy and awful.

Jack raised an eyebrow as he limped toward the bathroom. "Awfully chummy with my mom to have towels in her trailer, eh?"

"Chirp, chirp, Mr. Zimmermann," Bittle rasped. Jack would bet anything he was rolling his eyes. "They're for Buttercup. Every trailer's got 'em."

"Huh." Jack hadn't investigated the bathroom. It had a toilet, sink, and shower, and he hadn't cared about anything else so far. But sure enough, the bottom shelf of the closet next to the sink held a stack of large, fluffy towels. Jack grabbed two and came back to the main area of the trailer, tossing a towel to Bittle before carefully easing himself down next to Buttercup and starting to dry her off.

"What are you doing?" Bittle asked.

"Drying off your dog," Jack said, confused by how that wasn't obvious.

"Yeah, but..." Bittle broke off to cough. He waved the towel in his hand at Jack. "What's this for, then?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "There's no point in you being miserable. Dry off. You can grab clothes from the closet, if you don't want to stay in your wet stuff." He grinned. " _My_ clothes, not my costume."

Bittle huffed a laugh. "Cold, wet, and wearing a polyester guard uniform. My dream come true." But he was already dropping his satchel on the floor and heading toward the back closet.

Jack grinned harder and rubbed Buttercup's front. She leaned heavily against him, eyes drifting shut and shivers subsiding as he worked. "Yeah, you're a good girl," Jack said. A loud clap of thunder sounded, and Buttercup jerked under his hands. He leaned closer and stage-whispered, "I don't like storms, either."

"She likes to be sung to."

Jack's gaze snapped up. "Pardon?"

Bittle's cheeks were pink, and Jack didn't think it was just from the wind. He was swimming in one of Jack's Falconers T-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants. Jack swallowed. "When she gets anxious," Bittle said, "singing to her helps. I'd do it, but..." He trailed off, but Jack took his meaning. Bittle's voice was wrecked. Toads might find it comforting, but no one else.

Jack looked at Buttercup—and his mind went blank. He wasn't much of a singer, but he knew songs, damnit. _Everyone_ knew songs. But the instant Bittle suggested that Jack sing, every song he'd ever learned went clean out of his head.

Then one came back. The one he should've expected, probably. He crouched down and kept his gaze on the sweet corgi face in front of him so he couldn't see Bittle's reaction.

_"Why do you build me up, Buttercup, baby  
_ _Just to let me down and mess me around?  
_ _And then worst of all, you never call, baby  
_ _When you say you will, but I love you still  
_ _I need you more than anyone, darlin'  
_ _You know that I have from the start  
_ _So build me up, Buttercup, don't break my heart."_

Jack looked at Bittle before he could stop himself. Bittle's cheeks were flushed, and his mouth hung open slightly. Jack's singing voice wouldn't wow anyone, but it was… okay. At least, his shower and his truck never complained.

Jack cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said. "Bet you hear that one a lot."

Bittle shook himself. "It's fine" he said quickly. "It's a go-to for me, too." He glanced down and smiled. "Worked, too."

Buttercup had sunk to the floor and was sprawled across Jack's feet. She wasn't asleep, but she seemed relaxed. Jack couldn't help his soppy grin. "Good," he said quietly. "I'm glad."

Bittle stared at him for another long beat and then nodded like he'd made a decision. He tilted his head toward the door and said, "Rain's let up. Help me bring the pies to the tent."

Jack nodded and stood, earning a grumble from Buttercup, and eased the soggy bakery boxes off the table. As he followed Bittle out of the trailer, he felt the slightest stirrings of optimism. The situation might not be perfect, but it was getting better.

*

Derek "Nursey" Nurse did _not_ match Jack's expectations. Jack had googled him after agreeing to the role, so he knew that Nursey worked incredibly hard ("Twice the work for half the credit," he heard Georgia's voice in his ear). In addition to writing film scripts, he organized for Black Lives Matter in New York, was a senior editor for the Marshall Project, and co-wrote a popular web series called _Waking Up Is Hard to Do_ , about a group of young Black activists dealing with the exhaustion of white friends and colleagues "waking up" to American racism after George Floyd's killing.

He was also one of the most laid-back people Jack had ever met. Definitely the most laid-back hockey player. Maybe he put on that act to avoid being stereotyped as an "angry Black man," but Jack knew a thing or two about putting on an act, and this didn't feel like one to him.

"I wrote two drafts of the script in the first two months of COVID. In a creative fugue or something." Nursey and Chowder, all-purpose film tech and former Samwell goalie, were demolishing the last of Bittle's peach pies. Nursey's expression turned somber. "Then George Floyd was murdered, and it didn't matter anymore. I shoved it in a drawer and dove into my other work. And _this_ bro, Dex, and Denice went and got the script in front of Alicia freakin' Zimmermann!" (Hearing someone call Foxtrot "Denice" was weird. But her husband calling her "Foxtrot" probably would've been weirder.)

Jack was appalled. "Without _asking you_?"

Nursey's eyes widened. "Yeah, I've forgiven them for that," he said. Chowder blushed and looked away. "I would've gotten back to it—" Chowder shook his head and mouthed _No he wouldn't_. "—once stuff calmed down."

"The thing is," Chowder said earnestly, "stuff wasn't _going to_ calm down. This'll take the rest of our lives. But we still need good stuff, right? Movies, and... and hockey games, and pie! And this script is _so good_! We wanted somebody to read it and think it was as 'swawesome as we do."

Jack nodded. "My mom does."

"Heck yeah!" Chowder crowed. "And Nursey wrote the part with her in mind, so it's good that she likes it, right?"

Bitty smiled like Chowder was his actual child. "Sure is, sugar," he said.

Jack shifted in his camp chair and winced, stifling a gasp as his knee protested the movement.

A warm hand landed on his forearm. "You okay?" Bittle asked quietly.

Jack smiled weakly. "I've become one of those old guys whose bad knee predicts bad weather."

Bittle snorted. "Better tell it to step up its game. Predicting bad weather when it's already raining isn't that impressive."

Jack chuckled as Bittle's chirp deflated the heck out of his bad mood.

"Would it help to get inside?" Bittle asked, and there went the rest of Jack's funk, squashed to nothing by Bittle's genuine concern.

"It wouldn't hurt," Jack admitted. He hated to leave the conversation, but the humidity and fluctuating barometric pressure were playing havoc on his knee.

Bittle popped up. Nursey and Chowder looked over, and he waved them off. "Y'all stay put. I miss my best girl."

Nursey rolled his eyes. "Your best girl is with Lardo. Does _she_ miss _you_?"

Chowder protested in Bittle's defense, but Bittle was grinning. "It's true. Lardo is her favorite."

Jack didn't realize how effectively Bittle was redirecting the others' attention until he was on his feet and they offered him only a curious glance. Jack shrugged. "What can I say? I miss Bittle's dog, too." It felt like a weak deflection, but the others bought it, laughing and waving as he and Bittle made their way out of the tent.

Bittle led them toward the building where they'd been shooting. Jack held out a hand to get his attention. "Bittle, wait. We can't go in there now."

The scene they'd been planning to shoot today needed to take place in bright sunlight. Maman, Johnson, Dex, Lardo, and Foxtrot had been frantically trying to figure out if they could create the appearance of sunlight or if they should move to a different scene. Dex and Foxtrot had been clear on the dire fate awaiting anyone who interrupted them before they were ready.

Bittle laughed. "Mr. Zimmermann, did you forget that I went to this school? I know places all over campus where no one will look for us."

Bittle led them into the building and toward the elevator. On the second floor, he skirted an enormous potted plant and slipped into an alcove that Jack, even granting his minimal understanding of architecture, didn't think was physically possible. But it had three comfortable-looking chairs clustered around a low table and plenty of other plants that would shield them from even the most insistent prying eyes.

Bittle threw himself into the chair in the middle, which put him directly under one of the building's skylights. Jack eased more carefully into the chair to his right and lifted his foot onto the table. Bittle let out a sigh of complete relaxation. He looked utterly at ease, like he was made to sit in that chair in this spot. Jack imagined him here as a student, hiding out his fifteen minutes of fame after he became captain.

"How did it happen?" Jack blurted, only a little surprised at himself.

Bittle raised an eyebrow. "How did _what_ happen, hon?"

"Did you... I mean, when you... came out? were outed? It seemed like a big deal, and I..." He shrugged, unable to ask a third of the questions he wanted without coming out to Bittle, himself.

Bittle snorted. "Yeah, I'd say it was a big deal. First out captain in NCAA Division I men's hockey. Maybe you didn't hear about it, but for people who pay attention to queer representation in sports, it made a splash."

Jack winced, but he'd earned the disdain in Bittle's voice.

Bittle settled more comfortably in his chair and popped his feet onto the table next to Jack's. In Jack's hoodie and sweats, Bittle was showing off his slouchy frat boy side. Jack wasn't embarrassed to admit that it was working for him. "I wasn't outed against my will, if that's what you're asking." He looked at Jack, who shrugged again. Bittle mirrored the motion. "I guess... I was never _in_? The chance to be openly gay and supported while playing hockey was a big reason I chose Samwell. By spring break of my frog year, I was out all over school. By the time I got to be captain, the only people who didn't know were the ones in my hometown. No one cared anymore."

"Until _OutSports_ cared."

Bittle laughed. "They were mad the _Swallow_ scooped 'em. I still don't know how they found the article."

"An overworked intern with a Google alert, no doubt."

Jack and Bittle glanced up. Looked like neither of them had heard anyone approaching. Jack almost asked Maman how she'd found them, but, hell, she'd gone here, too.

"For what it's worth," she continued, "I thought the article was wonderful. Far beyond the _Swallow_ 's usual standards and with a healthy dose of good-natured humor."

Bittle squinted at her. "You read it?"

She settled on the arm of Jack's chair as gracefully as she would a throne. "Reading the _Swallow_ was a guilty pleasure when I went here—it was even tackier then, if you can believe it. I picked it up again when they started putting it online. I showed Bob the article. He was impressed—by the article _and_ you. He had a real passion for increasing equity and inclusion in hockey."

"Huh," Bittle said thoughtfully. "You know, I think—"

Whatever he thought was lost in the rush of tiny feet as Buttercup charged up to them and skidded to a halt—directly in front of Jack.

Jack stared at her with wide eyes. "Euh... hello? I'm sorry, Ms. Buttercup, I don't have treats today."

He glanced up to find Bittle covering his face with his hands. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said, voice muffled but suspiciously light, like he was trying not to laugh. "She wants you to sing to her again."

"Bro, _sing_?" Lardo asked. Jack hadn't heard them come up behind Buttercup.

" _Again_?" Maman murmured.

Singing in front of so many people was a nightmare for Jack—literally, he'd had this nightmare—but Buttercup was looking at him with that doggy grin, and he could deny this dog very little. He closed his eyes to block out the other human faces and started singing.

 _"'I'll be over at ten,' you told me time and again  
_ _But you're late, I wait around and then  
_ _I went to the door, I can't take any more  
_ _It's not you, you let me down again."_

He couldn't block out Maman quietly singing _"Hey, hey, hey"_ behind him, but he ignored her and forged ahead.

 _"Baby, baby, try to find  
_ _A little time and I'll make you happy  
_ _I'll be home  
_ _I'll be beside the phone waiting for you."_

The three voices singing " _Ooo-oo-ooo, ooo-oo-ooo_ " were harder to ignore. He cracked his eyes opened and glared. Bittle and Lardo laughed, and Maman smiled serenely. Buttercup was resting against his leg, eyes mostly closed, so he figured he could stop.

"Of course it goes without saying," Maman said affably, "that anyone who shares video of that without Jack's express permission will be in serious violation of their contract."

Jack looked around. Maman was looking at him in that soft way she'd developed over the past year, like she was seeing a piece of Papa in him. Lardo was outright grinning.

Bittle... Bittle had the same look on his face that he had when Jack sang to Buttercup in the trailer. Jack wished he had a clue how to read it.

Bittle cleared his throat. "Well," he said, laughing weakly, "I better step up my singing game, Mr. Zimmermann, or my dog's gonna like you better!"

Lardo rolled their eyes and started herding everyone downstairs to finally shoot the scene. "Keep dreaming, Bits. You're all stand-ins for me."

Everyone laughed. The charged moment Jack had been sharing with Bittle slipped away. But the landscape between them was shifting.

*

**A WEEK LATER**

Bittle didn't look up from assembling ingredients as Jack staggered into the kitchen and collapsed onto a stool at the counter island. He nudged Buttercup with his leg and said, "Go on." Buttercup rushed to Jack like she'd never been happier to see anyone. Jack rubbed his hands over her head and neck and relished the solid weight of her against his leg as his knot of unnameable feelings slowly untangled. Bittle tsked, but it sounded weirdly consoling. "That was a rough one."

Jack groaned. "It's a movie, for heaven's sake. We're _making_ the movie."

Bittle shook his head. He'd skipped his usual fresh-pressed business casual look today. Instead he sported a faded red Samwell hockey shirt that looked irresistibly soft, mind-bogglingly short denim cutoffs that Jack was _not_ looking at, and a peach-colored Georgia Peach apron swimming with pockets. "Doesn't make it easier to watch. Why d'you think I'm hiding Buttercup in here?"

In the movie, Buttercup plays the rival mathematician's dog, Brahmagupta, startlingly vicious despite her dopey appearance. During a heist-planning scene early in the film, one member of Professor Almquist's team counsels befriending Brahmagupta to keep her from alerting the rival to their presence, while another recommends killing her so they don't have to worry about her. As time goes on, Professor Almquist's vacillations between these options become a barometer of her mental and moral health.

Today they'd shot the scene where the professor comes within a hairsbreadth of killing Brahmagupta, stopped more by Jack's character's unexpected arrival than by her own moral compass. The amount of hurt Jack felt, walking into that room knowing what was about to happen, surprised him. Having to pretend he didn't know what was going on hurt more.

"It's ridiculous," Jack said.

Bittle shook his head. "I don't think it is." He paused, resting his hands on the countertop and looking earnestly at Jack. "If you were a random guy watching the movie, you'd see a random lady who's not doing so great thinking unkind thoughts about a random dog. But no matter how 'method' you claim to be—"

"I _never_ claim to be method," Jack grumbled. "Everyone else keeps saying it _about_ me."

Bittle grinned. "Belinda Almquist can't be a random lady to you. She's your _mom_. And the dog is Buttercup."

Jack considered that. Then he sighed. "I hate how much sense that makes."

Bittle sniffed, but he was smiling as he said, "I'm more than a pretty face and delicious pies, Jack Zimmermann."

Jack chuckled. The tension in his shoulders was flowing away. "They _are_ delicious, though."

"Oh, you," Bittle muttered. "Want to help me make this one?"

Jack's eyes widened, and he held up his hands. "What? Me? No, Bittle, you do _not_ want me baking with you."

"Come on, Jack," Bittle wheedled. "It's pie. Pie is the easiest!"

"For you."

Bittle rolled his eyes. "It's literally a saying, you moose. 'Easy as pie'?"

Jack squinted. "I thought that was about _eating_ pie."

"No, it's not—huh." Bittle paused, frowning. "I never thought of that. Well. Doesn't matter. For me it's baking, and you're gonna help. Get you focused on something else for a while." His grin turned sharp. "It's maple apple."

Jack laughed. "You trying to bribe a Canadian?"

"Would it work?"

"If the Canadian was me, yeah," Jack admitted.

Bittle's laugh was like a pealing bell, and Jack realized all over again how smitten he was. Bittle shoved a peeler into Jack's hand and set a bowl of apples in front of him. "Peel and core those, please."

Jack nodded. He could handle peeling and coring. Probably.

Jack fell into a rhythm. Normally, anything as repetitive as peeling a bowlful of apples would leave him too much space for his thoughts, but he found his mind quieting. He risked a glance at Bittle, who was working on the crust and not paying Jack any mind—or so Jack thought until Bittle said, "How did you find me?"

Jack dropped his gaze to the apple in his hand, watching the bright red skin peel away in a long, curving strip. "I, uh, asked Nursey where Buttercup was. He said she was in the kitchen with you." He glanced around the room. It was serviceable if uninspiring, its beige blandness slightly offset by the Samwell red appliances. "I didn't know there was a kitchen in here."

"Food science classes used to be in here, before they moved to the science building," Bittle said.

"Administration is okay with you using it?"

Bittle snorted. "I'm Samwell's most famous food-related alum, Jack. I can use whatever campus kitchen I want, whenever I want, _for_ whatever I want."

Jack grinned. On the rest of campus, Bittle had a confidence that seemed hard-won and slightly fragile; he'd seen the flinches when one of the bigger guys hug-bombed him without warning. Here in the kitchen, everything looked as easy as breathing to Bittle. Jack found that confidence and competence extremely sexy.

Peeling and coring apples was the last easy step. Bittle had prepped the crust, but apparently they couldn't just dump apples and maple syrup into it and shove it in the oven. Bittle spent a lot of time lovingly tending a pot full of apples and... magic spells, possibly. Then he lost his mind and put Jack in charge of the lattice on top. Jack immediately starting making a hash of it, not helped by the fact that the conversation had turned to hockey, leaving him struggling with split attention. "Bittle, I'm messing up your pie," he said. "Look at this. It's awful."

Bittle didn't turn around. "Stop it; I'm sure it's great. Let me see."

"I have no idea why you're trusting me with this. Look—"

Jack stood and stepped forward, pie in hand, to show it to Bittle. Bittle turned, holding an open bag of flour. They nearly collided. Only Jack lifting the pie above his head and Bittle clutching the flour against his chest prevented a disastrous mess.

"Oh, sorry—" Jack blurted.

"Pardon me—" Bittle gasped.

They danced around, trying to get out of each other's ways and ending up more in them.

"E-excuse you, but my kitchen is no place for checking!" Bittle said with faux indignation.

Jack raised an eyebrow. " _...your_ kitchen?"

"Well, _the_ kitchen! Now move your big—uhm." Bittle was turning a delightful shade of red.

Jack's smirk deepened. "My big..." He grinned and squeezed his eyes tight as a puff of flour billowed around his face.

"I was asking about your professional hockey career, Mr. Zimmermann!"

"Right." Jack set the pie on the counter and sat down again. Looked like they wouldn't be talking about his terrible lattice, the flour on his face, or whatever that moment had just been. "Well, you know, I'd never thought about signing with an expansion team, but I talked with my dad and Uncle Mario about it, and they said—" Jack glanced at Bittle. Bittle was staring at him, warm brown eyes wider than Jack had ever seen them. "Bittle? What's wrong? If there's anything on my face, you put it there."

Bittle's Adam's apple bobbed, and then he blinked. "Oh," he said weakly. Then again, stronger, " _Oh!_ You keep talking, hon, I just remembered I have something for you. And you have..." He gestured at his face.

Jack wiped flour off his chin and watched, intrigued, as Bittle put the pie in the oven ( _crisse, those tiny shorts_ ) and then crossed to the table and rummaged through his satchel. He emerged, grinning, with an envelope in his hand. "I thought of this last week when Alicia mentioned showing your daddy the _Swallow_ article on me. Just took me a while to find it. Thought you might like it."

Intrigued, Jack took the envelope out of Bittle's hand and glanced at it. Then he set it carefully on the counter when his hands started shaking and his vision blurred.

When Papa died, Thirdy, whose beloved grandmother had died six months earlier, had explained the box theory of grief to him. "Think of yourself like a box with a grief button inside, dude," he'd said, the weird pixelation of his computer screen making him look unbearably serious, "with this ball of grief bouncing around inside you. Every time the ball hits the button it _hurts_ , right? Right now, that ball is huge. Like, it's never _not_ hitting the button. In time, the ball gets smaller. Moves slower. But it never goes away, is the thing. It's floating around in you for the rest of your life, and it keeps hitting the button when you least expect it, and _bam_! You're hurting again."

If Jack had known what Bittle was handing him, he might have braced himself for that grief ball slamming into him. Instead, he it caught him off-guard, and he stood braced on a counter in an unfamiliar kitchen, crying like he hadn't in _months_.

"Jack!" Bitty gasped. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

Jack shook his head. "No," he insisted, "it's fine. It's perfect."

Some called Bad Bob Zimmermann one of the greatest players in hockey history. Others called him overrated. _Everyone_ , critic or fan, called him the player with the worst penmanship. Jack had framed a card Papa had sent to his billet home in Rimouski, excitedly telling him that he was being _indicted into the Hull of Fume!_ Jack knew the effort he'd put into making _Eric Bittle, Samwell University, Samwell, MA 02399_ legible.

With shaking fingers and tear-blurred vision, Jack eased the card from the envelope. The image seemed innocuous enough—a frozen pond ringed by snow-dusted evergreens. But it set Jack's tears off again, because he recognized this pond, behind the vacation house in New Brunswick that Maman had sold so quickly. And he recognized this picture, because he'd taken it himself, not long after his overdose, when his therapist had encouraged (read: ordered) him to pick up a hobby that had nothing to do with hockey.

Jack opened the card and faced a wall of the careful penmanship Papa used when he needed to be legible. He steeled himself and read on.

_Eric,_

_Congratulations on being chosen as captain of the Samwell men's hockey team!_

_When Alicia showed me the article in the Swallow, I was so impressed. (Impressed that the Swallow had done actual journalism. Hah!) To go from starting playing in a no-checking league halfway through high school to being captain of a D1 university is an incredible accomplishment, and I hope you realize it. Your teammates sure seem to._

_To do all that and be the first out captain in D1 men's hockey takes real grit. It shouldn't, and it sucks that it's taken so long to get here. But there you have it. I've tried to get the dinosaurs in the NHL to improve conditions for LGBT players for years, but maybe the change needs to come from people like you, who live those conditions every day._

_I wish you the best for Samwell's upcoming season. The assholes will be coming for you. Keep your eyes open and let your team have your back._

_Yours,_

_Bad Bob Zimmermann_

Jack bowed his head and focused on breathing steadily. "It's a very… _him_ letter," he managed.

Bittle snorted, though it didn't sound unkind. "I'm glad it makes sense to you," he said. "When I got it, it was the most confusing thing anybody'd ever sent me."

Jack's eyebrows raised. "Confusing how?"

"Well first off, some random guy I'd never heard of, and who wasn't a journalist or a scared, closeted high schooler, sends me this note—"

"You'd never heard of my dad? Bittle, you played hockey!"

"Yes," Bittle said with the slow patience born of having explained something many times. "I played no-check club hockey in a small Georgia town where football was the second religion and my daddy was the high school football coach."

"But then you came here—"

"I came here to get out of the South, be gay, and get a degree, Jack. Hockey was just how I got that done."

Jack leaned back, stunned. Hockey was his beginning, middle, and end. That someone might play it as a means to some _other_ end had never occurred to him.

"So then," Bittle continued, "he knew I was in college, but he mentions making changes in the NHL. What was that about?"

Jack grinned. "Before he sat down to write to you, he would've watched every second of your tape he could find. I guarantee he mentioned the NHL because he thought you were good enough to play there."

Bittle's face did what Poots would call _the blue screen of death._ Jack could tell that his words had gone in, but Bittle could't seem to figure out what to do with them.

Apparently he decided to ignore them, pointing to the last paragraph of Papa's letter, instead. " _The assholes will be coming for you_. Is that a warning or a threat?"

Jack laughed quietly. "Would you believe he meant it as a compliment? He took people wanting you to fail as a sign that you'd succeeded." He sighed and rubbed a corner of the card. "Papa was good at tons of things. Encouragement and advice weren't among them. When I was a kid, every game I played, every practice, no matter how well I'd done, he'd squeeze my shoulder and say, 'Good job. Next time be better.' After my overdose, I had a _lot_ to say in family therapy about what that had done to me."

" _Jack_ ," Bittle said, sounding appalled.

Jack shook his head. "We got better together. We were really close at... when he died." He swallowed. He glanced at Bittle, not sure what to expect, but Bittle was smiling at him, soft and sad.

"I'm glad," Bittle said. "'Cause from what Alicia's said, he thought the world of you."

Jack laughed weakly and nodded. "He did. He was just bad at showing it. And I was bad at seeing it."

Bittle smiled softly. "Well, you got there in the end."

"Yeah," Jack agreed. The phrase was innocuous enough, and Bittle was far from the first person to say it to him. But hearing it in Bittle's earnest voice and seeing the look in his big, sincere eyes made Jack feel good about it in a way he rarely did. Like Bittle was proud of Jack having repaired his relationship with his dad and wanted Jack to be proud of himself, too.

It startled Jack to realize how fiercely he wanted to keep Bittle's regard. He leaned forward, a hair too far into Bittle's space. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do or say, but he wanted to be brave.

Foxtrot burst into the kitchen, wild-eyed and frenetic, waving her clipboard at Jack. "Oh, thank god. Jack, they need you on set."

Jack jerked away from Bittle. "I'm done for the day."

She grimaced apologetically. "You were. But Derek and Johnson got brainstorming, and Johnson had one of his 'creative visions.' He asked me to bring you back. Something about delayed gratification and narrative pacing."

Jack groaned. He glanced at Bittle, who looked like he was trying not to laugh. The amusement fell off his face when Foxtrot added, "Oh, Bitty! Johnson needs Buttercup, too."

Bittle huffed and called to Buttercup, who'd fallen asleep next to Jack under the counter. She stood and made her way to him, slow and protesting like she thought this was as big a crock as Jack did. Bittle scritched around her ears and gave her a treat from his apron. "I hear you, sugar," he said as she grumbled and leaned against his leg, "but you know how to do it, and I'll be down as soon as I get this kitchen cleaned up. Jack'll take good care of you in the meantime." He glanced up at Jack. "Won't you?"

Jack blinked. "Don't you need to come with her?" At Bittle's raised eyebrow, he added, "I mean, you're her human, and..." _And what_? He couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound like a pathetic plea not to lose Bittle's company.

Bittle smiled wistfully. "I can't leave this pie, Shitty's gone today, and Dex is super busy, so no one can watch it."

"Derek could," Foxtrot said, but she sounded nervous about it.

Bittle laughed. "Oh, hon, that's sweet. But we both know what happens when Nursey's alone in an active kitchen." They both grimaced. Bittle turned back to Jack. "She'll be fine." He winked at Jack. "More professionalism in her front paw, remember." Jack smiled. "Chowder knows her commands; he can direct her. I'll be along as soon as this pie is done. And I know you'll take real good care of her in the meantime."

It sounded more like a request than a threat. Jack wouldn't have hoped for that much a few weeks ago. He nodded. "The best."

"Go on, Buttercup," Bittle said. "Go act." Buttercup grumbled again but started walking toward Foxtrot.

Jack slid Papa's card across the counter. "Thanks for showing me this," he said and hoped Bittle could hear that he meant it.

Bittle cocked his head, looking confused. "I brought it for you. To keep."

"But he wrote it to you!"

"Honey, I read that thing so many times my senior year I have it memorized. It's a piece of your dad. You need it way more than me."

Jack swallowed the tears that threatened to rise up. Crying was fine, but this wasn't the time or place. "Thank you, Bittle," he said, catching Bittle in an awkward but heartfelt side hug.

Bittle hugged back fiercely. His grin was bright and infectious as he nudged Jack toward the door. "Jack, you voluntarily made a pie with me. You can call me Bitty."

Jack grinned back as he grabbed the card and crossed to Foxtrot and Buttercup as quickly as his leg allowed. "Thanks, Bittle!" he called, and left the room to the sound of Bitty's laughter.

*

**LATE JUNE, 2022**

At first Jack thought he was imagining things. But the third time he glanced over, he had to acknowledge it: Jessica was looking at him with deep worry, almost suspicion. He eased his leg back to its starting position and took a gulp from his water bottle. "What?"

"You're smiling," she said, like an accusation. "I've never seen you smile. Wasn't sure you _could_."

Jack considered. He he must've smiled at _some_ point. PT wasn't a field of rainbows and puppies, but he tried not to take out his frustration at his body's limitations on his therapists, who were trying to help him heal.

But he'd felt better lately. His knee was still healing, but it hurt less and moved more easily every day. The Falconers had made it to the finals, and while he hated thinking about not being on the ice with them while it happened, happiness at his team's accomplishment far outweighed the ache.

And as of last Thursday, Johnson was officially done with Jack, which left him free to hang out with anyone not actively involved with filming. Nurse and Shitty seemed to live in the craft services tent. Ransom and Holster, who oversaw the film's behind-the-scenes finances and logistics, dropped by whenever they could get away from their fancy consulting jobs in Boston. Buttercup and Bitty often arrived early in the morning to stock the tent and then stayed until they had to head back to Providence for the Georgia Peach lunch rush.

Jack smiled wider and swallowed a laugh when Jessica's eyes narrowed like she was scanning him for weapons. "You know," he said, "I think I like my life!"

"Happy for you," Jessica said, deadpan. "Now give me twenty more of those with the other leg."

*

**EARLY JULY, 2022**

Jack leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach, marveling at the sheer mass of food he'd consumed in the last three hours. Nate would scold him if he knew, but Georgia Peach had put together a spread that put even their own usual offerings to shame. Jack hadn't tried very hard to resist.

The _Inner Eye_ wrap party was winding down. The night was beautiful, warm with a light breeze blowing wisps of clouds across the sky. The nightlife-inclined cast and crew had relocated to the hockey Haus, but Jack preferred to stay in the tent with the group Lardo affectionately called "you old farts"—Maman, Johnson, a couple of the older cast members.

As of ten o'clock that morning, _Inner Eye_ was officially done filming. It was far from _done_ ; next came editing, scoring, promoting, releasing, and promoting more. But this part, that they'd come to Samwell for, was done.

They'd spent the day cleaning—the lighting and sound set-ups; the tiny space the university had allotted them for hair, makeup, and wardrobe; the minimal sets. Maman and Jack had cleared out their trailer and handed the keys to Lardo. In the morning, the trailer company would drive them to wherever they'd come from, and that would be that. All trace of _Inner Eye_ gone from Samwell forever.

That thought hit Jack with a harder pang than he'd expected. Maybe he hadn't "found himself," but he felt more content and comfortable in his life than he would've expected at two and a half months post-injury and still off the ice. He'd made friends here. He'd focused on something other than hockey and his knee long enough to begin healing his mind as well as his body. He'd proven, definitively, that acting was _not_ his calling.

But something was itching at him. It wormed his way under his skin like a raspberry thorn. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he suspected it would nag at him until he figured it out.

Jack startled when something poked his calf. He looked down and spotted a bare and expertly pedicured foot. He looked up and raised his eyebrows at his mother.

"Are you ready to take your old, tired mother back to Providence?" she asked.

Jack snorted. "You're not old," he said, but he levered himself out of his chair and collected their empty plates and cups. Once he'd taken care of them, he stood, hovering, between the compost bin and the table, unable to take another step in either direction. He could almost put his finger on what he'd left unfinished, and it was driving him batty.

"Jack?" Maman asked gently. "Are you ready to head home?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "Almost. I just... uh. I feel like... I haven't really said goodbye to everyone."

Maman snorted. "Well, it's a bit too late take another lap around the trailer!"

Jack shook his head. "No. Not that."

Maman looked at him for a long minute. Then she said, "Ah," and her expression cleared. «You know what your father always said».

«Close that door, I'm not heating the whole province»?

Maman laughed loudly. Then her gaze softened. « _If it's what your heart is telling you, you should do it_. Go, Jack. Go really say goodbye».

Jack stared, stunned. Heat rushed into his cheeks. He swore he heard bells. "...oh."

Movement in the corner of his eye broke the spell. Johnson jabbed his phone screen. The bells cut off abruptly. "Sorry, bro," Johnson said. "Guess I forgot to turn off that alarm." Then he winked at Jack.

Jack didn't have time for that. He barely looked at Maman as he jogged in the general direction of Frat Row. «Euh. J'reviens».

"Jack!" Maman called, voice spiking. "You can't _run_ to the Haus!"

Jack swore. He'd forgotten about his leg. He turned back. "Maman—"

He reached up reflexively when a giant ring of keys flew at his face, but they hadn't come from his mom. He glanced at Johnson, who was smirking. "Bro, I can't miss a chance to make this canon divergence more canon _and_ more divergent. Go get your boy!"

Johnson made less sense now that filming was done, but Jack wouldn't argue. He nodded his thanks and hobbled toward the nearby row of golf carts. He climbed into one and began the longest, slowest drive of his life.

 _Your heart_.

He and Bitty had had _moments_ in the past month or so. The one in the kitchen with Papa's letter was the most obvious but far from the only one. Each time, if an outside force hadn't interrupted them, Jack had put on the brakes. Grinned cheekily and walked away. That voice in his head kept reminding him that his career mattered more than a fling with a random guy on a movie set, cute though he was.

But when he let himself picture it, he didn't want a fling. He wanted a chance at something longer with Bitty. _Deeper._ He was sure they could have it, if Bitty wanted it, too. Thinking about _how_ and _what-if_ was terrifying. But Bitty was one of the bravest people Jack had ever met. Maybe he'd be willing to be brave for both of them until Jack could be brave for himself.

Jack did a piss-poor job of parking outside the Haus, but he didn't think anyone would hit the cart, which was the important part. He walked up to the door as quickly as he could, trying not to think about how horrifyingly unsound the porch was. A small group of people, probably Samwell students, clustered on the porch. For a wonder, they didn't seem to recognize him. He considered banging on the door, but the pounding music inside told him no one would hear, so he went in.

His luck ran out the instant he was inside. A trio of guys built like hockey players (go figure) looked up and went into blue screen of death mode. "Holy shit you're Jack Zimmermann," one of them blurted.

Jack nodded. "I am. Is Eric Bittle here?"

The guys clutched their red cups and stared blankly at him.

Jack huffed. "Eric Bittle. Yea high, blond, used to go here?" When the three kept looking blank, Jack growled and shoved past them into the room. Why were they here? Why were _any_ of them here? Wasn't it summer break?

"Okay, but, no, you're Jack Zimmermann," the guy called after him, like the mere fact of his Jack Zimmermannness meant he shouldn't be here. Which was fair. If the Falcs' insurers knew he was in such a dilapidated building, they'd have strong words for him. If the PR department knew he was here to declare his big bi love for the most notoriously gay player in college hockey history, they'd have his liver for breakfast.

After several minutes of aimless wandering and drunk-dodging, Jack spotted Holster's giant head towering above the crowd. "Holster!" he shouted above the deafening bass line as he shoved his way through. "Have you seen Bittle?"

Holster rolled his eyes with easy, drunk affection. "Not lately. But if I know him, he's in his old room, cleaning. Whatever poor schmuck lives there now is gonna be hella confused when he goes to bed. Up the stairs, double back, turn left, only door on your left."

Those didn't sound like real directions, but Jack nodded and went in search of the stairs. Once he was on the second floor, the instructions made a vague sense, and after he'd made the left turn, he easily followed the faint strains of a voice singing Beyoncé until he found Bitty, who was, sure enough, cleaning an unknown Samwell hockey player's room with his earbuds in and Buttercup lounging on the floor.

"Bittle," Jack said.

Bitty jumped. "HELLO!" he yelped, spinning and pulling out an earbud. Then he frowned. "Hello! Jack?" He rushed across the room to stand in front of Jack. "Oh my _goodness_ —why are—is everything all _right_? You're outta breath! You could've texted—"

"Bitty," Jack said softly. And then they stared at each other while Jack tried to figure out what to say. He hadn't planned this, was the thing. His whole drive here, his anxious brain had spun what-if scenarios and paths he and Bitty could travel together, but he hadn't spared a second's thought to how to get them onto any of those paths, once he had Bitty in front of him.

In the absence of words that could do the work, Jack relied, as he often did, on action.

The first kiss was not the greatest. Jack was too amped up on adrenaline, Bitty too surprised. Then Jack raised his hand to Bitty's neck, his thumb brushing Bitty's cheek. Bitty melted against him, his hand resting on Jack's chest, and they deepened into each other, again and again.

Jack wasn't sure if they'd kissed for thirty seconds or thirty minutes, but he knew two things. One, he wanted to keep kissing Bitty for as long as Bitty would let him. Two, his phone was buzzing insistently.

Jack pulled away reluctantly after one more kiss. "That's... uh. That's my phone. I should..."

Bitty swayed away, eyes barely open, kiss-drunk. "...oh."

Jack wanted so badly to say _screw it_ to whoever was texting and keep kissing Bitty. Forever. But he glanced at his phone and saw **Maman** on what looked like a _giant_ stack of texts. _Jack,_ the top one read, _come on. I hear my bed calling my name._ The time stamp told him he'd left the tent half an hour ago. He grimaced apologetically at Bitty. "I gotta go."

"Okay," Bitty said. He looked like he'd never been happier, or more confused.

"I gotta go, but I'll text you, okay?" Jack promised. He took a step back, but then Bitty was pushing in after him, kissing him again, and how could he say no to that? Jack forced himself to detangle and step away from Bitty. He went all the way to the door so they couldn't kiss again. "I'll text you."

"Okay," Bitty said, nodding like a man with no idea what he was agreeing to. Jack grinned, leaned over to scritch the top of Buttercup's head, and dashed out of the room, down the stairs, and out the side door he'd had just enough brainpower to notice on his way in.

Once he'd snuck back to his golf cart, Jack texted Maman _omw_. Then he switched to his text thread with Bitty. It contained ninety percent pictures of Buttercup or things Bitty'd baked and Jack's replies of _Nice._ or a thumbs-up emoji. He winced. No wonder the kissing had surprised Bitty. Jack hadn't exactly made his feelings obvious. Well, that changed now.

_I like you. A lot. And I'm bi._

Bitty's replies came fast: _good. glad I'm not some experiment to you. and i'm glad you don't go around kissing boys you don't like._  
_for what it's worth, i like you too_  
_so does buttercup. not the same way, obvs. but it matters to me how she feels about important people in my life_

Jack grinned and exhaled in shaky relief. _Am I an important person in your life?_

_i think you're about to be, mr. zimmermann_

Jack was beaming, barely caring if anyone saw him here, sitting in a golf cart grinning like a loon. His phone buzzed with a new text, but it wasn't Bitty. Guiltily, he switched to Maman's thread. She'd replied to his last text with a string of dancing and celebrating emoji, but now she'd written, _Are you coming? Or are you and Eric still canoodling?_

Jack flushed. He adored his mom, but sometimes he wished she were one of those parents who didn't understand their adult children. _Coming, I promise._

He switched back to Bitty. _Mom's sussed me out. I have to go. Talk tomorrow?_

_I'd like that Jack. good night_

_Good night, bud._

Jack put his phone in his pocket so it wouldn't tempt him. Then he puttered back to his mom, smiling all the way.

*

**ONE YEAR LATER - SEPTEMBER 2023**

Jack opened the limo door and leaned back quickly so Buttercup could vault over him and onto the curb.

Maman laughed as she followed Buttercup out. They looked amazing and ridiculous standing next to each other; they were officially each other's dates, and Buttercup's bow tie was made from the same material as Maman's dress. Jack laughed softly. What even was his life?

Jack glanced at Bitty, who looked back with excitement and trepidation. "Ready?" Jack asked.

Bitty smiled faintly. "Funny; I was about to ask you the same thing."

Jack thought of himself in June of 2020, the Jack who'd read the script of _Inner Eye_ for the first time. He'd enjoyed it and thought it would make a good movie, a good role for Maman. He hadn't thought more of it than that, focused on his faint but unyielding hope that the world would sort out the COVID situation soon so he could get back to hockey. He had a solid if distant relationship with his parents and only considered coming out in sweat-drenched, panicked moments when he woke up from nightmares about being outed against his will.

Now here he sat, two years and change later. Vaccines and therapeutics worked well enough that COVID-19 caused no more trouble than an average flu season, but those things had come too late for Papa. Jack was back to hockey, but the near-constant low-level ache in his leg felt like a clock ticking down his career. He hadn't seen _Inner Eye_ yet, but it was the most important movie of his life. It had given him a circle of friends outside of hockey, an even stronger bond with his mom, and above all, _Bitty._

Bitty, who'd loved and supported Jack as much on bad days as good. Who'd demanded, and reminded Jack how to give, the same love and support in return. Who'd danced and baked his way into the center of Jack's heart and reminded him that he was allowed to—that he _should_ —have more in his life than hockey.

Tonight, Jack and Bitty would step out of this limo at the Toronto International Film Festival and hold hands up the red carpet to the _Inner Eye_ premiere. They would refer to each other as boyfriends and kiss at the top of the stairs. It was time. _Past_ time.

"Jack?"

Bitty's eyes were wide, and he was biting his lower lip worriedly. Jack cursed as he realized that Bitty had interpreted his long pause as a moment of panic.

Bitty put his hand on Jack's good knee. "Sweetpea, we don't have to do that stuff we talked about. It's a lot. We can go in there as friends, watch the movie, have a good time."

Well. Jack didn't know what he'd expected from the most selfless person he'd ever met. They'd been planning this for weeks, and he knew how badly Bitty wanted it. Yet here he was, offering Jack an out if the pressure was too much. But the past fourteen months had shown Jack that he wanted a whole life with Bitty, the kind they could only have if they came out.

Jack took Bitty's hands in his. "Bits, I want us to be everything we can be, everywhere we can be. I want to take you to Falcs family skates and watch you smoke the team at speed drills. I want you with me at formal events, reminding me of people's names and sassing everyone who's rude to us. I want us to live together, with Mom nearby, and not have to pretend we aren't a family. I want to hold your hand tonight while we watch my first—and hopefully last—acting role." And at the after-after party, when they were with Maman and their friends, he wanted to give Bitty the ring that had been weighing down his pocket for four months.

Tears pooled in Bitty's eyes. His smile was so wide that _Jack's_ face ached. He opened his mouth to say—well, Jack would never know, because instead he started laughing.

"What?"

"Listen," Bitty said, pointing outside the limo. "Someone's noticed we're here."

 _"Why do you build me up, Buttercup, baby  
_ _Just to let me down and mess me around?_  
_And then worst of all, you never call, baby  
_ _When you say you will, but I love you still."_

Buttercup had received a lot of attention during _Inner Eye_ 's pre-release publicity. Certain circles considered her as big a draw for this movie as Maman or the other castmembers. It seemed like Bitty couldn't take her anywhere without someone playing or singing that song to them.

Jack looked where Bitty was pointing. Maman had gotten Buttercup up on her hind legs and was holding her front paws while they danced. Jack looked back at Bitty, whose expression was sweet concern mixed with a mischievous twinkle. He lifted their clasped hands and kissed Bitty's knuckles. "Come on, Bits," he said. "I'm ready."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Song lyrics are from "[Build Me Up, Buttercup](https://youtu.be/FvluBVhfGcw)," written by Tony Macauley and Mike D'Abo, performed by The Foundations. Title from [Back On My Feet Again](https://youtu.be/RZde8iXKr04), written by Tony Macaulay and John Macleod, also performed by The Foundations.
> 
> [The box theory of grief.](https://twitter.com/laurenherschel/status/946888282444460033?lang=en)
> 
> Character death: Bad Bob has died of COVID-19 before the story starts.


End file.
